III. The Believer

At 2:30 Wednesday afternoon, the thick scent of cigarette smoke wafted into Detective Findhorn's nose. He looked up.

"I understand you followed my advice." said Briggs.

"Yeah." said Findhorn, letting no emotion into his voice. "There was a sale."

"Not to mention a wanted fugitive."

"Coincidence. Interrogation of McAllister showed he had never met anyone of your description."

"That only proves that I know more than he does."

Findhorn studied the tall man. Briggs lit a cigarette as he watched. After a few moments of contemplation, Findhorn beckoned for him to sit. Again leaving his coat on, Briggs sat, staring across the desk at Findhorn as if he expected something. Finally, Findhorn spoke.

"All right then, how did you know McAllister would be there, vulnerable?"

"Ah, that information isn't free. Perhaps we can trade?"

Findhorn took out the file on Hosanna of Bethany. There was a time when it would have been kept on a computer database, but mass communication had been crippled to the edge of extinction during Rehnquist's takeover.

"Tell me this, then; why are you so interested in this case?" Findhorn demanded.

"The Reverend Carter made a deal with one I work for. In return for services rendered in the past and those pending in the future, Carter was loaned an item of considerably worth and function. Since Reverend Carter is now incarcerated and unable to perform any future services, my employer has declared the bargain to be void, and sent me in to retrieve his possession." explained Briggs.

"Who is it you work for?" asked Findhorn.

Briggs scoffed. "I'd have more than just a scolding on my hands if I told you."

"For someone in search of information, you give precious little in return."

Briggs leaned over the table. The smell of cigarette smoke was overpowering. "I can give you some more advice, in exchange for more information on Hosanna of Bethany. Better advice." Briggs leaned back.

Findhorn caved. "All right. Upon investigation of the church site, we found video recordings of seven people--including Carter Jr., Klepacki, Brainard, and four others--ritualistically molesting as many children.

Briggs looked surprised. "Video recordings? How did they get a camera?"

"It was an old model, probably thirty years old. They must've hidden it during the transfer of power, when the ban on private video equipment was instituted. The thing had a big enough memory card that it could have been running continuously since coming off the assembly line and wouldn't be full yet."

"And IDs on the victims?"

"The footage goes back eight years, according to the camera's date recorder. Some of the kids are adults by now."

"Really?" Briggs paused. "Some of them were older, then?"

"As far as we can tell through ID checks, the victims ranged in age from 6 to 13." said Findhorn.

"One last thing." Briggs threw his cigarette out the window. "What happened to the victim's you've been able to identify?"

Findhorn sighed. "Two of them are in the New Liberty Hospital for the Mentally Ill, dealing with the psychological damage of their ordeal. Four others are missing, most of them from a time shortly before being recorded at Hosanna of Bethany. We suspect foul play."

Briggs held a freshly lit cigarette next to his ear. "And the last?"

"Bill Hayden was the first child on the tape, age thirteen at the time of the incident. He was also the last abuser recorded. He would have been twenty-one at time; he's twenty-two now."

"A believer." muttered Briggs.

"Excuse me?"

"Hayden believes whatever the Reverend taught him. Why else would he come back? Now, where can I find him?"

"He goes to court tomorrow. He's in a holding cell until then."

"How would I go about setting up a meeting with him?"

"You don't. He's not allowed visitors. Considering they've got him doing the act on video, he'll be convicted by noon tomorrow. They've already reserved a slot for him at the penal colony for a 7PM execution."

"Justice is swift in New Liberty."

"Only if you can't pull any strings." Findhorn conceded. "Now, I've fulfilled my part of the bargain."

"Of course, of course." said Briggs. "My advice is to take your four o'clock coffee break ten minutes early."

Findhorn waited for more, but Briggs rose to leave.

"Wait, that's it?" he demanded.

"That's it." said Briggs, straightening his coat.

"How could that possibly be worth what I told you?" Findhorn demanded, feeling cheated.

"It's about equal in value to the benefit of stopping at a grocery store instead of a pharmacy."

II. Advice

The rain had slowed down by the time Detective Findhorn left the station. The chilly March night around him was pierced in a thousand places by the lights of New Liberty. As Findhorn passed the grocery store Briggs had mentioned earlier, he noticed a prominent sign in the window, advertising that 2% Milk was on sale.

"Hell of a marketing ploy." Findhorn muttered as he pulled into the parking lot.

Within a few minutes, Findhorn was waiting at the checkout. While he waited, he scanned the faces in line around him, and did a double-take when he recognised one--he'd seen it every day for the past six months as he passed the Wanted poster board on his way to his office. Kevin McAllister, lieutenant in the Raven Fist insurgency group, suspected in numerous terrorist bombings that had loft twenty people dead between them. McAllister had a scar over his forehead that wasn't in the Wanted poster, and had died his hair black, but there was no mistaking him.

Findhorn slid away from the checkout, trying to act nonchalant. McAllister was fourth in line; Findhorn had time, but not much. Kneeling behind an aisle display, Findhorn called for backup and explained the situation to dispatch through his radio. He was assured that a patrol of eight Loyalty Monitors--chemically controlled cybernetic officers commonly known as "Chots"--would be on site within two minutes. McAllister would likely realize what was going on if that was allowed to happen--Findhorn would have to get the jump on McAllister without delay.

Findhorn held his gun in one hand and his badge in the other, hands concealed in the pockets of his jacket. One thing that twenty-six years of police work had taught him was that people were rarely noticed if they looked like they knew what they were doing. Walking with false purpose, Findhorn made his way towards the Customer Service desk, giving him an excuse to pass McAllister.

As he did so he pulled his hands from his pockets and caught the unsuspecting insurrectionist in a headlock.

"NLPD!" he yelled, pressing the barrell of his gun to McAllister's forehead. "Empty your pockets!"

McAllister dropped a handgun from his left jacket pocket, not saying a word. Customers around the pair pushed back in fear. As luck would have it, there was a moment of shocked silence amongs the crowd that enable Findhorn to hear someone cocking a gun.

"Drop it! If I don't see a gun hit the floor in five seconds, I'll blow him away!" Findhorn yelled. In other times, such a display from a law enforcement officer would have been unacceptable. Those times were over.

Behind Findhorn, eight chots entered the store, weapons raised. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the ground past the crowd. A pair of hands went up in the same general direction. Outnumbered and captured, McAllister and his accomplice were brought in without a struggle.

Findhorn came home after eight o'clock that evening. He told his wife and children about the sale that had drawn him into the store, and how it had led to the arrest of the one of the 100 most wanted fugitives in New Liberty.

He didn't mention the tall stranger.

I. Smoke Signal

Detective Findhorn of New Liberty Police Station #137 looked up from the files on his desk when the tall man entered his office.

"May I help you?" asked the detective.

"The name is Briggs." said the tall stranger. He looked to be somewhere in his forties, with shoulder-length hair streaked with gray and a voice that spoke of many decades of chain smoking. The smell of cigarettes hung around him like an aura. "I made an appointment with you a few days ago."

Findhorn flipped through his day planner. Sure enough, the name "Briggs" was pencilled in for 2 to 3 PM. "So you are. Please, have a seat, take your coat off."

"I'd rather not, if don't mind." said Briggs, leaving his coat on as he sat.

"Detective, I know your time is valuable, so I'll cut to the chase. I'm looking for information regarding the Hosanna of Bethany Church and the nature of the crimes committed there."

"There's not much I can tell you that hasn't already been leaked to the media." said Findhorn. "Sick place, that was. A generation ago they were a respected congregation, one of the biggest in the city." He passed Briggs a picture of Hosanna of Bethany Church across the table. It was a panaramic shot. Hundreds of practitioners clustered around the mid-twenty-first century-era church. Right beside the church sign stood the minister and his family--a wife, two daughters, and a son. The words "Hosanna of Bethany Baptist Church of Columbus, Ohio, 2207 A.D." were written in white lettering at the top of the picture.

"In 2219," Findhorn continued, "the Minister, William Carter, had a stroke and was replaced by his son, Daniel Carter.

"Daniel didn't take to the congregation too well. Over the next twenty years, the church's membership dwindled from roughly one thousand to..." Findhorn consulted a file. "Thirty-two. There were a few complaint to police stations in the area regarding the church, the most noteworthy being six separate allegation of child molestation against Carter and two church elders, Frank Klepacki and Deborah Brainard."

"Any convictions?" asked Briggs, reviewing photos of each of the three.

"Carter defeated two of the cases in court, then settled a third privately. Klepacki settled one suit and spent two years of a six year sentence behind bars before being released on good behavior. Brainard got 18 months house arrest in a plea bargain."

"Interesting. Go on."

"On the 22nd of November, 2241, we got a call from a former memeber of the church telling us when to set up a bust to catch the elders in the act. It seems that she'd fled to Indiana after her own daughter was slated to be next in line for some sort of ritualistic molestation."

Briggs chuckled without any sign of humor. "Doesn't sound like a Baptist tradtion to me."

Findhorn scoffed. "That wasn't the half of it. However, the rest of the information on this case requires security clearance, so I'm afraid that's all the details I can give you."

Briggs sighed, withdrawing a lighter and cigarette from his coat. He lit up, took a drag, and looked at Findhorn's fingers. "They say there are no straight cops left in New Liberty. How much would security clearance cost me?"

"Forget it. I don't know who you think you are, but I know there's at least one good cop left in New Liberty who refuses to be corrupted, and you're looking at him."

Briggs smiled, letting smoke drift through his teeth. "Very good. I'd heard that you're one of the few who are unmoved by loose money and quick power. Which is why I chose to speak with you; you're someone who deserves to be rewarded for compliance."

"One word from me and you'll be locked up for trying to bribe me." said Findhorn.

"Come now, the only people who go to jail for corruption these days are the ones too stupid to leave funds available to bribe the judge.

"And I know your principles mean more to you than money. I need help from someone close to the case; I chose you as most worthy of recieving what I have to give as compensation."

Findhorn rose. "Get out."

Briggs stood up. "Fine. But I will make you an offer. I will give my advice in return for an appointment tomorrow."

"What advice could a corrupt slimeball like you give to me?"

"Just this. From what I understand, your wife wanted you to pick up some milk on your way home from work tonight, correct?"

"I'm not even married." said Findhorn.

Briggs tossed his cigarette through Findhorn's open window. "Don't lie to me. I know you have a wife and two kids, a brother and sisters living on the West coast. Your mother lives with the older sister and your father's been dead for 30 years. Rest assured, praying on innocents is below me; no harm will come to them by my hands, whether you help me or not. Now answer me--did your wife ask you to pick up milk on your way home?"

The gravity--and accuracy--of Briggs' information seemed a bizarre contrast with the frivolity of his question. Findhorn knew there was more going on here than he could see. After collecting himself for a moment, he responded. "Yes. Yes, she did."

"Then my advice is to stop at the grocery store on 29th Street, instead of the pharmacy on Park Avenue you usually stop at. Heed my advice, and I'll see tomorrow at 2:30."

Before Findhorn could reply, Briggs was out the door.

The cold rain outside began to pick up. Shaking his head over the strangeness of the encounter, Detective Findhorn got up and shut the window. In his preoccupation, he failed to notice that there no cigarette butts in the gravel courtyard beyond it.